


i hate it when dudes try to chase me (but i love it when you try to save me)

by ameliajessica



Category: Solo: A Star Wars Story (2018), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Making Out, han is such a softie, lando has protective streak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-02 05:56:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16299434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameliajessica/pseuds/ameliajessica
Summary: “He could die,” Han says, voice cracking around the word. “I don’t—fuck I have no idea what I’d do, Lando, he’s all I—““He’s going to be fine,” Lando says, even though he is in no position to claim so.“I’ll stick around. We’ll wait together.”He means and doesn’t say: you have me.





	i hate it when dudes try to chase me (but i love it when you try to save me)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reystars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reystars/gifts).



> so in my other star wars fic, I mention that han and lando made out one time when chewie was sick 
> 
> so 
> 
> this is han and lando making out one time when chewie is sick

When Han takes his ship from him ( _not_ wins; you can’t win something that doesn’t want to leave you), Lando vows he will either never see Han Solo again or kick that pretty boy’s ass so hard that Han’ll _beg_ him to drop him off naked in Jakku before he’s done with him.

 

As it turns out, the next time Lando sees Han, it goes almost entirely the opposite.

 

Han _calls_ him, for a start. Calls _him_. Lando stares at his communicator for several seconds in disbelief, not sure whether to be impressed at the balls on him. Or pissed. Actually, he’s just pissed.

 

“Tell me,” he says in the speakers when he flicks it open with a harsh flourish, “ _exactly_ where you are. _Right_ now.”

 

“Lando—”

 

“Exact coordinates,” says Lando. “Down to the—”

 

“Listen, man,” he starts, a classic opener for some standard Han Solo bullshit. Lando is ready to cut him off, or even hang up, again when his ears catch up with the tone in Han’s voice. The nervous hitch, the way it wavers in the few instances Han is actually unsure of himself. He’s heard an approximation of this, knows what Han sounds like when he’s about to smooth over whatever bullshit he’s wants to drag Lando into.

 

This is different. Even when Han’s in trouble he never admits he is, much less show it at all, even if Lando would be able to see through it straight away. Though he can’t figure out why, intuitively he can tell this is more than Han trying to sweet-talk Lando into some poorly-thought-out scheme.

 

“What did you do?”

 

“Nothing!” he snaps - angrily, but not defensive. “I - sorry. Kriff, I don’t know why I called. I just… I don’t have anyone else.”

 

At that, communicator pressed to his cheek, Lando looks up. His head rings with the number of thoughts that swirl through him.

 

“Look, nevermind,” Han is barking out, after Lando is silent for too long. “I - do me a favour and forget I ever—”

 

“Tell me where you are,” he says again, for entirely different reasons. Even his tone comes out changed in his own ears.

 

“Really?” Han says, voice breaking with relief. Lando feels it in his stomach. “I mean, No’ovak. The, uh, medical centre.”

 

 _Medical centre?_ “I’m on my way,” he says, turning off the call and punching their coordinates more forcefully than is required.

 

 

 

 

 

Han meets him at the entrance. He didn’t tell him how long it would take to arrive, so he has to believe Han had been there since they hung up. The image of sitting on the steps, knees pulled up to his chest is a punch to the gut, for some reason. Waiting, because he doesn’t know what else to do - calling Lando, because he doesn’t have anyone else to call. He still has no idea what’s happening, or how he can even help, but he’s suddenly very glad he came.

 

Han stands up when he sees him. On his face is such an earnest and blind relief, it makes him stumble a little. Subconsciously, Lando gives Han a once over, and in other circumstances Han would clock with a shit-eating grin and swell his chest (and be right to do so), but instead when he notices he shakes his head and says, “It’s not me. It’s Chewie.”

 

(No offence to the Wookie, whom Lando has absolutely nothing bad to say about except the dumbass company he can choose to keep, but it becomes a little easier to breathe to hear that.)

 

Han walks him through to the waiting room. “They’re saying it’s some, uh, some… virus. Or a ‘viral infection’, I don’t fucking know the difference.”

Lando does know the difference, but doesn’t think it would actually do any good to point it out.

 

“And I speak Wookie,” he’s still saying, genuinely frantic, “but it’s all this medical mumbo jumbo that I couldn’t even understand in Standard.”

 

“Is he gonna…” Lando trails off, crossing his arms.

 

He was going to say ‘make it’, but can’t quite finish the sentence, afraid to even bring up the idea of a life without Chewie to Han - especially since he knows nothing about Wookie anatomy and really might not have to.

 

Luckily Han’s brow furrowed, looking like he rejects the very notion. “Yeah, yeah. They keep saying the procedure is… I don’t know, routine. As routine as a viral infection can be for a Wookie, I guess. The guy’s supposed to be from a resilient species.”

 

Lando nods, leaning against the wall.

 

“It’s my fault,” Han says, quiet, the tone he’d had on the phone leaking back into his speech. “He’d been saying he wasn’t feeling great, but I just... I told him we could take some time off after this job but when we were trying to pick up cargo, he passed out. It took seven guys to get him to the Falcon. If I’d just _listened_ , if I hadn’t been such a _selfish assho—_ ”

 

“Han,” Lando says, even pronouncing it properly this time. “Why don’t you sit down? Pacing around and wearing down your busted busted shoes isn’t going to help Chewbacca.”

 

At the dig at his footwear Han lets out a harsh breath that isn’t quite a laugh, but it’s close enough, just when Lando had cursed himself for the the comment and was about to apologise. Rubbing his eyes, he nods and sinks into the chair.

 

He sits, leaning forward, elbows on his knees and palms pressed together, resting in front of his face. Han is a kid, but he wears worry like someone beyond his years. He looks small and terrified but long-suffering all at once. Like he’s all too used to it sitting down in his bones. It unsettles Lando; to see Han so genuine in his concern is a universal constant being ripped from him. 

 

“Do you want like, some kaf?

 

Han’s hair is sticking up like he’s run his fingers through it countless times. “Uh, no I’m good.”

 

“I’m going to get you kaf,” Lando says with finality, pushing off the wall.

 

“Why’d you ask if you weren’t going to listen to me?” Han mutters.

 

“I never listen to you Solo,” drawls Lando, over his shoulder. “If I did I’d have a much lower life expectancy.”

 

Han doesn’t point out Lando came running the second he thought Han was in real trouble, not Han Solo trouble. Lando is grateful for that, because it’d explain a lot more about himself than he’s comfortable with.

 

When he comes back, Han reaches up and wordlessly downs the drink practically in one. Lando is about to mutter, “‘I’m good’, my ass,” but Han probably wouldn’t hear him. His gaze is stuck to the bottom of the cup, just in case it holds any answers. It spikes up some sort of anger in Lando - not at Han - but _fuck_ , at the universe or this hospital or the fact that this situation is happening at all. And that he can’t do anything. He came all this way just to sit and wait with Han, utterly useless.

 

Maybe that’s why he reaches out, hand on Han’s knee, because at least he can try to keep Han out of his internal spiral. Han’s head snaps up, and at his confused look, Lando subconsciously smiles a little. Han’s expression changes again, looking the way he does when he’s trying to work out something impossible, but he refuses to believe it is.

 

Lando’s so taken by it, surprising himself with how fondness unfurls in his stomach, that he doesn’t realise what’s happening until Han has leant all the way into his space and is kissing him. Like, really kissing him. It’s so unexpected that for a moment Lando stupidly thinks it might have been an accident but then Han’s tongue is in his mouth and he realises, _Okay, so we’re doing this._

 

He tastes like the kaf, but something sweeter too, even though Lando didn’t add any sugar. He’s just about getting over that he’s _kissing him back_ , and close to necking _Han Solo_ when he’s being shoved away, bumping into the back of the shitty hospital chair.

 

“Sorry,” Han mutters. His eyes are wide, and unable to meet his own. He releases his bunched hands from Lando’s shirt.

 

“Ain’t no thing baby,” murmurs Lando, gentle, patting Han’s chest amicably. He does it without thinking, because really Han hates it when he calls him baby. It’s usually why he does it. But then Han, eyes now screwed shut, frowns further and makes a needy noise in the back of his throat, not sounding like it hates it at all.

 

“Ain’t no thing,” he says again. Then, he presses forward, pecking his lips again - just once. Quick and forgiving. He means to be comforting and final, and to remove any embarrassment Han might feel.

 

But then for no reason at all Lando cups his cheek. Han, eyes dark, turns so his thumb moves into Han’s mouth. Still making eye contact, Han’s lips press against the digit, biting down softly.

 

Lando is going to pass out. “ _Oh hell.”_

 

Han hand snakes around to the small of his back, and _pulls_ Lando to him. There’s the sound of a sharp inhale - from both of them - and then they’re kissing again, hard and hot and _noisy_.

 

And it’s fucking _good_. The harshness of it is maybe an outlet for the pent-up anger and resentment they have towards each other - or maybe the pent-up anger and resentment was them secretly being so unbelievably horny for each other all along because now that his hands are on him Lando can’t imagine ever kidding himself he would want to do anything else with Han.

 

Han’s gasps for air become panicked, shuddering, breathing heavily in a way that isn’t the way you do when you want to pull off someone’s clothes, even as his hands are fisted in Lando’s lapels. “ _Fuck, sorry.”_

 

 _“Han,”_ says Lando, again the proper way, pulling his hands from under Han’s shirt and smoothing them over his jacket, “it’s okay, don’t apologise, man.”

 

He doesn’t know if he’s apologising. Again for the kiss, or for breaking it off (because it was definitely too soon to break that off. There’s about a hundred more types of hums and shivers he wants to pull from Han that he’d happily invest hours of effort into). But either way, Lando is fine. In fact, all he wants is a magic cure for Chewbacca, to wipe off the sad puppy look all over Han’s face.

 

“He could die,” Han says, voice cracking around the word. “I don’t— _fuck_ I have no idea what I’d do, Lando, he’s all I—“

 

“He’s going to be fine,” Lando says, even though he is in no position to claim so. “I’ll stick around. We’ll wait together.”

 

He means and doesn’t say: _you have me._

 

Han nods, looking exactly like the hours of food deprivation and dehydration and despair he’s been through. His head slumps forward more until it’s on Lando’s shoulder, and Han curls his whole body around that contact point, but doesn’t push further.

 

With a careful move, Lando’s arms go round him and with that permission, Han finally presses closer. He ends up with his face buried in Lando’s neck, lips parted against his pulse point with his shaky breathing. Lando looks up at the ceiling despairingly, thankful the pants he’s wearing are uncharacteristically roomy.

 

Han falls asleep.

 

 

 

 

 

It takes another day.

 

It’s a little awkward the first morning. He thinks about going without saying anything, but when he wakes up, Han is drooling on his jacket, face still red from crying. He told Han he’d be here, so he shakes him awake, only a little annoyed about the jacket.

 

Lando stays and they don’t talk about the kiss. They barely even touch again apart from when they pass each other cups and their fingers brush, or when one of them falls asleep next to the other and their shoulders press together. Each time they mumble apologies like the physicality is too intimate, and each time it reminds Lando that he knows how Han tastes.

 

Lando spends the whole time ignoring the increasingly pissed off messages from his other associates and clients, wondering where the hell he is. He has no idea what lie he’d conjure up if Han asked if he had to leave, but either on purpose or but by accident Han never brings it up. In fact, he never questions Lando’s presence at all. Sometimes, he seems to seek it out, and for a brief moment Lando catches him looking relieved before he smoothes it out to indifference.

 

 

 

 

 

(Lando thinks a lot about Han’s breathing, the way it fluttered against his throat and how it slowed the moment when he finally fell asleep, and Lando, awake for all of it.)

 

 

 

 

 

They don’t let either of them in to see Chewie until he wakes up, keeps his food down and his given the all-clear, because if the virus can knock out a Wookie there’s no telling what it’d do to them. Han has been going so stir-crazy having Chewie out of his sight that he doesn’t believe it’s over until he sees it. And when he does see Chewbacca, awake and talking (read: flirting) with his nurse, his knees actually buckle and he has to reach for the threshold so he doesn’t fall. Lando reaches out to steady him at his elbow, but Han has already rushed to Chewie’s side after Chewie’s excited roar as he spots him, folding himself into his arms.

 

 

 

 

 

The front desk attendant bleats out the price of the procedure, Han blanches.

 

Pushing past him firmly but kindly, Lando hands them a card, nonchalant. “Run this.”

 

“Lando—“

 

He sounds like he’s about to insist Lando shouldn’t, though very reluctant to do so. It’s not like he can reverse the procedure and not have to pay - even so, after the scare, Lando’s pretty sure Han would hand himself in to the Republic and spend the rest of his lives in a cell if it paid for Chewie’s wellbeing. And he’s not about to let Han be a reckless dumbass if he can help it. Not after…

 

He’s just not.

 

Lando waves him off. “We’ll figure something out.”

 

Han’s shoulders straighten, and he looks away to the floor, embarrassed. Probably embarrassed he assumed that Lando was doing it out of the kindness of his own heart. Probably, he thinks this kind of money isn’t anything to Lando. It opens up the gulf between them again - the reminder that the lives they lead, despite the shared moral ambiguity, are starkly different.

 

 

 

 

 

(Lando won’t ever admit it, but those are two misconceptions: one, at least this account, that’s the better part of a year’s funds. Two: Lando has no intention of charging Han for a penny of it.)

 

 

 

 

 

Han sees Lando off back at the hospital entrance. The two of them mirror each other almost exactly; ducked heads and hands in pockets.

 

“You’re gonna be okay?” Lando asks quietly. It still feels too new, this tenderness between them. It’s also bewildering simple, to care about Han Solo.

 

Han shrugs, nodding casually. “Yeah, you know. The big guy gonna’s be a bitch to feed soup to, but it won’t be the first time he’s jostled me around for trying to take care of him.”

 

Lando laughs a little, the sound coming out a little unfamiliar after the last couple of days. He’s about to say whatever nonchalant goodbye feels closest to the most honest without actually giving anything away and Han suddenly pulls him into a fierce hug. It’s not strictly sexual, but Lando’s heart stutters in his chest it’s so intense. Han’s heart, beneath his solid, warm body, beats steadily against his. Lando closes his eyes.

 

(He tries not to arc his back when Han’s hands move to the small of his back.)

 

Then Han is stepping back. “Thanks. For... well just, thanks Lando. Really.” He looks so, so young.

 

Lando’s hand wants to reach out, and cup that troubled face, play at whether he can ease it into his favourite unimpressed, furrowed expression - and now, there’s the fresh desire to kiss away that furrow until Han is whining against his mouth for entirely different reasons - but he keeps it at his side.

 

Lando nods. At the last minute, daringly, he holds out his hand for Han to shake.

 

Han is an open book to a fault. He doesn’t subdue any of the relief and sadness that crosses his face as he stares at Lando’s hand, taking it into his own slow and careful, like the contact is precious. If it weren’t for this, Lando could have told himself he made the kiss up, the memory of it so far away in mind. The rough feel of Han’s palm brings it back to the surface, so vivid he could choke on it. The exchanged look as they both hold it, too long for a handshake, finally does away with all the doubt Lando had.

 

Han remembers too.

 

He doesn’t know if that makes it easier, or all the more kriffing complicated.

 

It isn’t until he’s left the galaxy, thoughts finally drifting away from the scent of the base of Han’s neck - distinctly of the Falcon - that he realises he forgot all about his goddamn ship.


End file.
